


Of All The Things Holy, Of All The Things Above

by TheDragonHunter



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore
Genre: Also kind of, F/M, Jealousy, Other, Sibling Incest, because they're awesome that's why, i'd just say usuall mythology stuff, kind of, sighthounds, the closer you look, the less happens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-07 03:44:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19076803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDragonHunter/pseuds/TheDragonHunter
Summary: The Moon was born to hunt the Sun; the Sun was born to eat the Moon.





	Of All The Things Holy, Of All The Things Above

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo :D I've been helping my sweet sister with her school project lately, and of course it was on mythology, and of course this thing just came to me, and, stupid as it is, I just know all too well I won't be able to write absolutely ANYTHING else until I get this stuff out of my head first. So yeah, here it is. Sorry for my wild&free commas, I really did my best.

Artemis chokes on the longing for Apollo with her first breath, when she realizes they are no longer one, but they will never truly be two. Her body is so frustratingly incomplete, as if someone maimed it, cut it in half, leaving a scar of thin umbilical cord that binds them together between what is and what will be. The blood is throbbing, sealing, singing, promising them the whole eternity, so Artemis decides to put her trust in it and wait. This is the first thing she ever learns – to wait patiently, even as her muscles shiver with ache, as her pupils widen, swallowing all the silver, even as she is nothing but a spark more than craving incarnate, and Artemis is scared, she is terrified with thought that her brother might choose a different path and not take her with him. When Apollo comes at last, it’s only then that the world becomes truly bound by new gods.  
Apollo will never follow Artemis again. Artemis will never outrun him.

(the Moon was born to hunt the Sun; hundreds and thousands will say it, scream it, sing it throughout endless centuries to come, and it will always be true.)

Artemis chases the wind, Apollo leaves it behind; Artemis bends the tree to eat the apple from it’s highest branch, Apollo breaks it; Artemis shoots through the wings of a butterfly from across the island, Apollo tears apart the wings of a bee. Apollo is faultless in everything he does, he is this bold, beautiful consummation that is lost with every hour of practise, every sore muscle, every single effort – his arrows slice through the air with levity that will never be known to those of Artemis, threatening all the stars in the sky and showing them some disdainful mercy.  
But Apollo is no hunter, could never be one. He lacks the patience to follow the trail, startles the prey with quiet laughter, unwitting humming, glimmer of sunlight, begins the chase too early, loses himself in the run and simply dashes through the woods; his hunting is nothing more than a fleeting whim, a game, abandoned as soon as it gets too long. Artemis watches him with a bit of pity and a bit of amusement, and dances with him on swampy meadowes, allowes him to pull her into the lake, deafened with the flutter of numb swans’ wings, gallops alongside him, leaving the deers far behind. And then she goes hunting, alone into dusk and silence, seeking footprints on soft earth.

There is one animal that always flees her, even whithout her brother around to disturb her. A giant, black deer, with fur so dark that in the everlasting twilight under the trees it seems like the empty void between the stars, with long, slender legs that carry him with lightness even Artemis’ wind-maned stallion could never match , with enormous antlers, marked by silver veins like gleams of moonlight. The more Artemis craves to hunt him down, the faster the deer flees her, just like the remains of prophetic dreams Apollo struggles to grasp every time he wakes up, as they fade into acrimony and unrest, in the same way mortals’ dreams do.  
Apollo laughs at Artemis when she awakes at dawn and returns long after sunset, exhausted and mad, oh, so very mad, that the moon rises bloody.  
One time, as they are resting on a meadow, Apollo begins to sing a new song, unlike any other Artemis has ever heard. The melody is sweet, so sweet it coats the tongue like milk and honey, sunlight caresses her skin, crawls underneath it into quiet, dark everlasting, thaws into serpentine loops of pure brightness, words are tangled with music, connated, entwined, and they wile, enitce with promise of warmth and safety and _oh, come_ , they say, _come, I’ll take you, I’ll keep you, I’ll hide you, I’ll have you, I’ll cherish, I’ll codder, I’ll hold you so, so dear_ , and something deep inside Artemis becomes soft and fragile. Suddenly, she notices a movement on the edge of the meadow, a shadow in the mirk of the woods. The black deer walks through the high grass, trustingly stretching its gentle neck towards Apollo, lies down next to them, close enough for Artemis to feel the heat of its body, to see the ribs, rising with each breath, and black, glassy eyes, fogged with drowsiness. The creature allows Apollo to stroke its shiny fur, softly shivering with pleasure, touches his hand with its wet nose. Apollo sings quieter and quieter, sweeter with every word, the melody is sticky like resin, like overripe, nearly rotting fruits, melting into juice that stains the arms up to the elbows, and then it snaps,  with a crack of breaking spine.

‘For you’, Apollo says with a smile, and he caresses Artemis’ hair, the same tender motion he calmed the black deer with.

After nightfall, they lie together under the skin scraped off the animal. Artemis cuddles up to Apollo, hides her head in the crook of his neck, gently clutching at his hands, until he pulls her closer, so that she can feel his heartbeat, echoing in his chest, and she slowly drifts away into the dark, soothed by his dreamy, unconscius fondle.

(if the Moon knew dusk, he might be afraid of light)

One time, a man with sparkling eyes comes to the island and takes the twins to their father’s house. The gods are watching them with something like envy and something like ravishment, Artemis holds Apollo’s hand, titters at something he whispered into her ear, and they are young and beautiful and everlasting and they pull on the hearts just like the moon, pregnant with fulness, pulls on the seas, leaving nothing but wet sand and small seashells.

Apollo brings light and music, that echoes between the columns of Olympus just as wondrous, as it used to echo under the crowns of great oaks. He takes everything the world sacrifices and he craves to sing, craves to dance, craves to run, craves to love and he craves, craves, craves

(that’s what makes him what he is)

and with every craving he becomes more magnificent, more blazing, more consummate, almost painfully so.

When Zeus asks Artemis about her wishes, she begs him for a horse, that will carry her lightly and swiftly, for a pack of hounds with white teeth and wet noses, for a suite of nymphs that will keep her pace and for a promise, that she will belong to herself and to herself only. She gets everything, and she leaves to hunt.

Artemis hunts forever, and those, who hunt with her, hunt forever; they will be hers, until all songs come to an end.

(without the Sun, the Moon would be nothing more than a gray pebble, floating across endless nothing)

Sometimes, Apollo and Artemis hunt together, chasing day, chasing night, chasing each other. Artemis feels his hands around her waist as she raises her bow, his fingers curled around her hip bones, his breath tickling her neck, and when she releases the chord, the arrow never hits the target, but it tears through the air with ten thousands sparkles, that fly straight up to the Sun.

Apollo brings her a sighthound, the most beautiful creature Artemis has ever seen, with a subtle head and and big, black eyes, watching the world with sharp brightness.  
‘For you’, he says.

The dog cannot hunt, that’s what Artemis thinks. It’s nose does not flutter lightly, catching the scent, it does not call with hoarse howling, leading her suite through the woods, it does not watch her with loyalty and love, wanting only to serve her every time she chases her prey. It’s just a splendid thing, that falls asleep in the warmth, it’s bones crackling like flames as it stretches out, just a fine being, with silky fur and soft paws.

One time, when Artemis is bathing, she notices a young hunter, hiding in the high grass and watching her lustfully. She has no bow with her, nor her faithful nymphs or hounds with strong teeth – only the dog her brother brought observes the intruder with obsidian eyes – but Artemis is a goddess, and the boy is just a mortal, human fool, wandering too deep into the woods. It only takes a snap of her fingers to turn him into a deer, a simple, wilful thought to force his own dogs to chase after him with wild barking. The hounds are tired though, exhausted, breathless after long hunting, too slow to catch the nimble animal, and the deer nearly flees them, when Artemis’ dog joins the pursuit and oh, what a sight it is! Silver, golden fur like beams of light, the tail tangled in the wind, fluttering like a banner, like a sash, like triumph, spreading into wings, muscles shivering under thin skin, bones so fragile, so delicate, they had to be carved with divine powers, so that the spring breeze wouldn’t shatter them, and it seems to be only breath, only chase, it hunts down the deer somewhat reluctantly, letting go of its neck as soon, as the hounds reach them. It watches as they tear their master apart, sitting next to Artemis with a disgust on its long, smiling snout, indifferently allowing her to caress its velvety ears.

Soon after that, Apollo returns to the Olympus with Python’s head, a crushed skull, ripped away from the body, and he smiles in the very same way his slender sighthound does.

(sunlight holds every colour to ever exist, but the Moon can only see white)

One time, as she gallops through the deep, quiet green, Artemis hears a scream, a melodius, high pitched howl, blood and defeat and pain melted into one, into perfect, harmonious tale, sang by a being unable of chanting a single wrong note; perhaps it was a voice once, but now it feels naked, flayed, skinned, stripped of everything that made it alive and allowed for it to be carved into words and tongues. It’s not a voice anymore, no – all that’s left of it is music, that can only shape itself into one story, maybe the only one Artemis will ever understand: the story of smooth bones, breaking with a beautiful, wet crack, of juicy, bloody meat, still shivering when she cuts into it, as the beast opens its eyes so widely, trying desperately to raise its ribs, to inhale through a hole in its throat, the story of a swollen stomach, full of leaves and acid, spilling out of the half – dead body.  
The song lures her out of the forest, from between the trees into the world, to a meadow, heavy with grass so high, Artemis can feel sharp blades on her naked arms. The sound vibrates in the air, resonating in the droplets of evening dew.  
Artemis sees a lonely, twisted tree among the grass, and Apollo, sitting underneath it, but it’s not him singing, it cannot be. His music speaks of strange, foreign things Artemis could never comprehend,

(perhaps this is why the Moon needs the Sun so much; it longs for the light, but cannot understand it)

it’s enchanting and it’s sacred and it makes Artemis cry, even though she doesn’t know what it is that she is crying for.  
But Apollo’s not singing now. He’s leaning against rough, black trunk, tuning his lyre, and he seems a little sore, his movements are sleepy and the Sun is setting, painting it all red, the meadow, the tree and a piece of bloody meat, hanging on a branch.  
Artemis walks to him through the wet grass.  
\- Who’s singing this tale?  
\- Marsyas – he says. Slender fingers, bright and clean like marble, caress the strings of the lyre with some lascivious tenderness, long hair fall onto his shoulders like cascades of pure light. Artemis sits down next to him and feels his muscles, shivering beneath heated skin.  
\- You’ve been hunting? Without me? – Apollo shakes his head – What is it then? – she asks, pointing to the revolting carcass on the tree.  
\- Marsyas – Apollo says again, somewhat absentmindedly – I made him sing for you.

He pulls her into a kiss, a sweet, drowsy, sluggish one. Perfect.

(sometimes, the Moon wonders if the Sun understands the light itself)

Artemis is there when Apollo falls in love for the first time, when he falls again and again and a thousand times more, always the same, like a snake, biting its tail –  he must keep falling in love and he must keep hunting his love to the ends of the world, he must beset, he must track, he must _cravecravecrave_

(Many, many times ago, Apollo used to sit together with the shepherds, singing them sweet, simple songs about blooming flowers and lovely girls and guarding their herds as they slept, lulled with his voice and high noon Sun.)

Daphne knew that, just like a hare knows the sighthound won’t stop following it, that it needs to have a beating heart ahead to give purpose to this strange desire, eating away its soul, that it needs to feel the earth below its feet, that the earth must run, the hare must run, it must chase, always _chase,_ because otherwise it will get lost.

Daphne was the first Apollo fell in love with.

(At nights though, a monstrous, fawn wolf would come down from the mountains, killing lambs in sheepfolds and babies in cradles and howling, voice hoarse with laughter and broken bones, howling, until blood dripped from its maw.)

Then, there was Castalia.

(Artemis remembers the smell of hot, wet fur and fresh meat, as the wolf would slip into her tent, lie down next to her and lick dew from her skin, seek the scent of hunting in her hair, grab her hand with trembling teeth, as she stroked its huge head, she remembers how he’d whisper in a tongue, that was less than half – human, all those feverish, fitful tales, that flied away straight into the Moon, not leaving a single trace.)

There was Hyacinth.

(In the morning, she’d wake up to Apollo, smiling on her with all the gentle, warm sun of dawn.)

There were other loves, quicker, shorter, harder.

Daphne was the first. Coronis was the last.  
Beautiful Coronis, with hazel eyes and thin waist, Coronis, that let him kiss her until she bled, Coronis, the smell of festering wounds and lavender oil, Coronis with scalds on caramel skin. Coronis, a new tale, a new song, Co – ro – nis, Co – ro – nis, a word that plays on his tongue, but has no taste, it’s neither sweet, nor metallic, nor thick or sticky, Co – ro – nis, he craved her, craved her, oh, _cravedcravedcraved_.  
Coronis was the last, for she decided to write the ending of her story herself. Apollo could punish her on his own, but he asks Artemis to do that.

Artemis wonders what it is that her brother fears more – watching Coronis die, or not feeling a thing at this sight.

(sometimes, the Moon thinks the Sun is so loving simply because it knows that its caresses leave charred skin and barren lands)

When Artemis sees Orion for the first time, she sends her hounds after him.

Orion comes back.

She could kill him for such an insolence, but she does not. Instead, she invites him to join her.

Orion is a hunter, he was born a hunter, learned patience like Artemis once did. He follows her like a gentle spark of light, tracking invisible traces, keeps her pace, but never outruns her, smiles voicelessly when the chase is over, his eyes glistening with hearty joy.  
When Orion’s with her, Artemis’ arrows fly quietly, but they never miss, their hounds spoor the prey slowly, but they never loose its scent.

Artemis loves Orion. Orion loves Artemis.

One time, Apollo challenges her. He points a tiny spot, far away in the distance.

‘Try, sister’

Apollo is a better archer than Artemis is. Artemis shoots anyway, shakes her head, laughing.

‘I belive you promised me a challenge?’

When they approach the shot animal, Artemis’ laughter dies in her throat. She feels Apollo’s arms, warm and familiar, closing around her, and she is safe, so safe, oh, she’s in the safest place in the world, as long as she does not make an attempt to leave.

For you, he says. Artemis clutches onto him as hard as she can, patiently waiting for the pain to pass. What could she fight back against?

Apollo craves, craves, _craves_. One time, he will devour it all.  
Artemis is but the Moon, she counts on the Sun and hopes, that it too counts a little bit on her.

 


End file.
